Archive for fingering

The Bathroom Stall

I hear the bathroom door open; the music shoots into the room and then becomes muffled again when the door shuts. I hear the clap of stilettos on the marble floor in front of the stalls and then the sound of one opening and closing.

I examine my toe-nails. The French pedicure is starting to peel. Who gets a French pedicure? It looks so tacky.

“That wasn’t very nice, Joan,” a voice says and I look up and through the crack between the stall and its door.

“Up here.”

I look up and see Miriam looking down at me.

“Jesus!” I scream, “Miriam, what are you doing?”

“Finishing our conversation.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

I realize she’s not going to get down, so I finish, wipe off, pull up my thong quickly, without looking at her.

“Cute ass,” she says with a giggle. I hear a Zippo open and flash on before it snaps shut. I look up. Miriam has a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Want one?” she asks.

“No.” I reply, straightening my dress. “How did you know I was here?”

“Brad told me. He heard you and that guy talking. Is he your boyfriend or husband or…? He’s older than you.”

I said nothing.

“Right,” she giggles, “does he know about me?”

“That I was looking for a whore? No, it was a surprise, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why did you run away like that?”

I turned to face her, “because you weren’t what I had in mind.”

Miriam jumps down and I hear the stall door open and close again, and then the sound of hip hop come pounding in before the door closes and the music’s reduced to a series of thumps.

I open the stall door and it stops midway. Miriam throws it open all the way and pushes me into the stall, closing the door behind her.

“Hi, Joan,” she says. “Did you think I’d left?”

“You’re fucking insane, aren’t you?”

“I want you to write about me,” she says.

“Is this what this is about?” I ask her indignantly. “Miriam, I’m not a writer. I just drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.”

“And fuck,” she adds, pushing me against the cool stall wall and bringing her lips to my ear, “don’t forget you fuck.”

She licks my ear lobe and traces my jaw line with her lips.

“You never answered me, Joan,” she whispers, “how would you fuck me?”

Her hand slides up the inside of my thigh, under the gray jersey dress and then higher, until her finger is grazing the space between my thong and leg.

I push her away from me and she pushes hard against me, “what, Joan?” she asks, “why do you run away?”

“I’m busy now,” I whisper.

Miriam kisses me. Her lips are hot; she pushes mine apart with her tongue. I feel it over mine, moving slowly. Her right hand has slipped around me, pulling me closer, pinning me between her and the wall. Her other hand has reached into the low cut of the dress and pulled it to the side, so my tit is exposed. I feel her cold fingers and hot palm cup it; she pulls away from my lips and brings her mouth to it. Her hand is now pushing away the other side of my dress so both my tits are out. She’s moving from one to the other, still holding me to her.

I let my head rest against the wall and finally bring my hands up to touch her. Her back is warm. My hand slips under her little black tube top and I pull it up to see her tits, those little nipples I’d seen earlier.

She brings her mouth to mine again and presses against me so our tits are sandwiched together between us. I put my arm around her, reach under her skirt; her ass is soft and full. I hadn’t noticed before when she had that skirt on.

Her fingers have found my thong again and she’s playing lightly over it with her fingernails. I moan as she begins to kiss my neck.

The door opens and the music fills the room. There’s the sound of stilettos on the floor, but I’m not listening. Miriam is sucking on my earlobe and I can hear her moans distinctly; her fingers are under my thong, playing my clit and I’m playing with her asshole.

Someone pushes the stall door open: “oops, sorry,” she says when she sees us and closes it again.
I pull my hand out from Miriam’s skirt, “Miriam…”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she whispers in my ear, her finger now inside my wet cunt.

“Yes,” I say, “yes, but not here. Come to my hotel.”

“And your boyfriend or whatever?”

“He can watch.”

Slave Material

I waited for Cheyenne’s call all week. There was always a degree of apprehension–would she call me to the office or some other place? It was impossible to tell what would happen with F______, but as a general rule, places other than the office were more exciting.

Today, I didn’t get a chance to stare psychotically at my mobile because Cheyenne called me at exactly 7:00, just as I was getting out of the shower.

“Your appointment is at 3:00PM. Dr. F______ will be waiting for you in his consulting room.”

I ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.

+++

When the elevator doors opened, I didn’t go through the waiting room. I turned left and headed straight for the door that led to F______’s consulting room. I slid my patient key on an unobtrusive panel beside a nondescript landscape painting and the door opened with a small screak of wood.

Inside, F______ was standing at one of his bookcases.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, distractedly.

I took a seat on an ottoman.

F______ pulled out a book, flipped through it, then placed it back. He went over to his desk, looked over a paper and brought a hand to his face.

I observed curiously. I had never seen him working before. He had that look that academics get when they have finally reconciled some impossible fact with reality.

“You might be ready, Zita,” he said. “You might be ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked him, crossing my legs.

“Something else.”

“Something else?”

Had he decided there was too much risk in what we were doing? Was I becoming a liability to him despite the fact that I only saw him when requested and knew nothing about him? Or was he bored with it and ready to get me off his hands?

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked, getting up and walking to his desk.

He walked around his desk and pulled on the steep v-cut of my jersey dress to expose my tits.

My heart jumped in my chest, I was sure he must have heard it beating insanely inside me as he inspected me.

“You still have considerable bruising from our session two weeks ago,” he said. “Even some scabbing on the underside where you bled.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He pressed down on a bruise.

I gasped.

“You have done much talking about submission and discipline, Zita,” he said. “Is it a metaphor for a selflessness and humanity you otherwise fear you do not possess or a real desire?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You throw around the word ‘Master’ as though it’s a game, a though that is something you grant a man. For all your academic musings on Natural Order and the flaws in modern pornographic works depicting BDSM, you seem to have entirely missed the point.”

He had my nipple tightly between his fingers.

“Do you really think that you could be a slave?”

“Y–yes.”

He walked around me, touched my hair, my hands, my shoulders, my waist. His are hands that please and hands that break, hands that conquer and hands that caress.

“Get into position,” he whispered in my ear.

I dropped on the ground in the position he taught me.

He examined me in place.

“I do like this position,” he said.

He pressed down on my back, felt my pelvic bones, my ribs, my vertebrae.

“There is so little of you,” he lamented. “You will always bruise. Up.”

I sat up.

He knelt before me and took me by the neck. He looked at me. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

“Yes, Master,” I responded opening my eyes.

“Don’t call me Master. I have not decided whether you are fit to serve me. Call me Elias.”

Slap! He slapped my face.

“Thank you!” I said before the pain registers.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

“What is my name?”

“Elias!”

He slapped the other side of my face. Then the other side. I thanked him. My cheeks stung.

“Stand up,” Elias said, rising, still holding me by the neck.

I stood. Elias reached under my dress and took hold of my cunt. I gasped, pressing my hips against his arm.

Elias removed his hand and, still holding me by the neck, pulled me into him. I felt his large chest against the left side of my body, rising and falling as he breathed. We stood pressed together like that for a moment before he took my hair with his free hand, pulled my head back and kissed me.

I gasped into his mouth. For some reason being kissed by him felt like a bigger deal than being fingered and slapped.

He didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t care. He kissed me, first just lips, opening mine like peeling a rosebud. Then I felt his tongue, rough and cold. The kiss was soft but somehow, incredibly violent at once. I moaned and struggled and he held me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me.

Kisses are for lovers. Dr. F______ is not my lover. How could he kiss me? I felt confused, I felt high, I felt lost, I felt so good, so good, so good. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

When he pulled away, I was shaking. I was breathing so hard, I could’t think. I was almost crying. My lips were swollen and bleeding.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Elias slapped me.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me again.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me and slapped me and with each slap I felt less lost. With each slap, I found my way back.

Yes, yes, yes, punish me, I thought. Punish me. I shouldn’t want you this much. Punish me. Punish me. Punish me.

“Sit down,” Elias said.

I sat in the chair before his desk. He knelt before me. And, taking one of my feet in his hand, pulled it up and removed my shoe.

“Are you ticklish?” he asked.

“No.”

He tickled me. Nothing.

“You have strong feet,” he remarked.

He slapped my right sole.

“Thank you!”

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

Elias put my foot down. I lifted the other.

“You little pain slut,” he said, betraying a smile. “You want more, don’t you?”

I sat silent, wide-eyed, feeling betrayed by my body.

“I will take only what you see fit to give me,” I said, too late.

Elias reached between my legs.

“You’re so wet,” he said. He could feel it through my pants.

“Ask me,” he said. “Ask me to give you more so I can punish you.”

“Give me more, Elias,” I begged.

He punishes me and it feels so good.

“That’s enough for today,” Elias says, finally, rising.

The Orange Grove

“Good morning, Zita,” came Cheyenne’s voice over the phone. “Today you are to meet Dr. F______ on the corner of South Doheny and Whilshire at 3:00PM.”

I thought for some reason we would have a late lunch at Kate Mantilini’s until I noticed the waiting smoke beige Saab sedan. I walked to it and without waiting for whoever was inside to open the door for me, let myself into the passenger seat.

F______ was behind the driver’s seat, alone.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and waving it. “Face the window so I can blindfold you.”

He smoothed my hair and stretched the silk kerchief around my face, ensuring that the area around my face was covered. I felt the pressure on my face as he tightened it and opened my eyes. I could only see specks of light through the dark fabric, like millions of distant stars on an ink black sky.

The car began to move. It slowed and sped up as its made its way through light early afternoon traffic. Eventually we hit a constant speed and I realized we were on a freeway, but by then, I had lost track of the streets and had no idea what direction we were going.

I was already aroused.

“Can I smoke?” I asked.

I heard my window roll down partially.

I reached into my clutch and felt for my cigarettes and lighter and sat back.

As I lit it, I heard a click and a voice–not F______’s–took over the speakers.

“Our models of the universe,” the man said, “our glosses or gambles have at least the following limitations and constraints upon them: one, Genetics. Our DNA happens to have evolved out of standard primate DNA and still has 98 percent similarity to chimpanzee DNA and 85 percent similarity to the DNA of the South American spider monkey. We basically have the same gross anatomy as other primates, the same nervous systems, basically the same sense organs, etc. Our more highly developed cortexes allow us to perform certain higher or more complex mental functions than other primates but our perceptions remain largely within he primate norm. The DNA and the sensory neural apparatus produced by the DNA creates what ethologists call the unwelt, world-field–perceived by an animal…”

I took a long drag. It sounded like some kind of a lecture on sense perception. It was a logical follow-up to the discussion on perception as illustrated by the notion of an assemblage point. I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I didn’t want to walk about my unwelt, I wanted F______.

Without my eyes, there was no way to perceive F______ beside me–not without reaching out. I wasn’t about to do that.

“Two, imprints. It appears that animals have brief periods of imprint vulnerability in which their nervous systems can suddenly create a personalized reality-tunnel unique to itself. These imprints permanently bond neurons into reflex networks which seemingly remain for life. The basic research on imprinting, for instance, for which Lorentz and Tinbergen shared a Nobel Prize in 1973, demonstrated hat the statistically normal snow-goose imprints its mother, as distinct from any other goose, shortly after birth. This imprint creates a bond and the gosling attaches itself to the mother every way possible. These brief points of imprint vulnerability can literally imprint anything. Lorentz, for instance, recorded a case in which a gosling, in the temporary absence of the mother, imprinted a ping-pong ball. It followed the ping-pong ball about, nestled with it, and on reaching adulthood, attempted to mount the ball sexually…”

I laughed and took another drag.

“How and when our pubertal sexuality gets imprinted, similarly, seems to determine lifelong programs of heterosexuality or homosexuality, brash promiscuity or monogamy, etc. In both common sexual imprints like these and in more eccentric imprints–celibacy, foot fetishism, sadmasochism, etc.–are bonded brain circuitry seem quite as mechanical as the imprint which bonded the gosling to the ping-pong ball…”

My ears perked at the sound of sadomasochism, but the discussion on the topic shifted once more to umwelt and went into other aspects that programs one’s perceived universe, including conditioning and learning.

I lit another cigarette and began to zone out, thinking of how hard his dick had been during our last session. It looked like it could have burst through his pants. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see his cock and put it in my mouth and…

What’s stopping me? What’s stopping me from flicking this cigarette out the window, pulling off the blindfold and diving into his lap? What would F______ do? What could he do while he was driving?

But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t dare.

A couple of minutes later, I felt the car slow to a stop. F______ killed the engine. He pulled off the blindfold and I saw we had parked on a forgotten road among orange groves. Orange groves in California. It could be anywhere.

Dr. F______ stepped out of the car, walked around and opened my door. I stepped out, thinking we were about to go on a hike, but he opened the backseat door.

Confused, I got in. F______ came around and got in through the other side.

“Turn around.” he said.

I did and he pulled up my top and unclasped my bra.

“Take off your shirt.”

I took it off.

“Take off your pants.”

“May I remove my boots?” I asked.

“You may.”

“May I remove my socks?”

“No,” he said. “Keep them on. It’s embarrassing.”

I looked at him in surprise. It really is embarrassing.

“Turn around again,” he said.

I turned.

He slapped my right tit, hard. He smacked the left one. He smacked the right one. Smack, smack, smack! One, then the other. Smack, smack, smack!

Then he pulled me to him, bent me over his knee and spanked my ass and pussy until I was raw.

It was brutal, intense. He hit me like no one has hit me before. I cannot tell you what other atrocities he did to me because I don’t recall very well. I floated into a trance. At one point he asked me something and I, crying and moaning at once, whispered, “where am I?”

As I write this, I try to understand my kink. Is it that I’m a masochist? Do I just want to be spanked? Or is there something else?

I think about Eric again and the reason things didn’t work out between us. There was plenty of pain in our interaction–and sex, too. No one has fucked me like Eric fucked me. I doubt anyone ever could. But Eric was lacking. Why?

I think about the scene in that car bent over F______’s knee again as his hand lands on my ass and cunt again and again and again. I think about the way I floated away at his violence, enraptured. I transcended.

There was no transcendence with Eric, I realize. There was nothing holy. This here is holy. When I am writhing in pain under F______’s hand, I am with the martyrs, living the ecstasies of devotion.

F______ made me a penitent worshiping before him.

“You are going to perform a duty for your Master,” F______ said that afternoon in the car after he had spanked me raw.

So I knelt before him in the cramped space of the car, waiting, unquestioningly as he unzipped his pants.

“Suck my dick,” he said.

“Teach me how,” I said, in supplication, opening my mouth over his cock.

F______ took my hair and guided me. I sucked his dick, his perfect dick, his solid, pulsing dick. He liked it when I gagged, asked me to thank him for gagging me, so I made myself gag on him and thanked him over and over as I sucked him off.

Then he picked me up and threw me on my back next to him in the seat. He came over me, took my nipple in his mouth, sucked on it, bit on it with his hand in my pussy.

He descended on me, sucking on my clit and labia, fingers still deep inside me until I was writhing and creaming. I could feel my thigh muscles tightening against the flexing muscles in his neck. I began to float away into pleasure, again, began shaking uncontrollably, like I was freezing, but it was just the power of the release as I came.

F______ looked up when I stopped shaking. I lay in place and watched him arrange himself.

“We’re done for today,” he said. “Dress so I can blindfold you again.”

Master

As I’d said, everything went into the little notebook that Dr. F______ had asked me to keep, even little pieces of fiction that I would come up with during the course of the day. These didn’t really have anything to do with being broken–they were written specifically for him, little missives full of want. Like playing with paper airplanes, I directed them at him by creating the master in the story in his likeness, from his head to his shoes.

I imagine him circling me without a word, his footfalls heavy on the wood as He inspects every inch of me as one would a thoroughbred. I take into account what I can with eyes downcast. Ferragamo shoes. I can tell by the length of the pants that He’s wearing a classic cut but I just can’t help myself. I let my eyes move up the length of His suit.

Prada. The Devil wears Prada, they say. I don’t know. I do know, however, that Pope Benedict does. I could recognize those shoes anywhere.

Mmm, Popes are fascinating. The passions of the Borgias taught me to appreciate my Catholic heritage. Under the debauchery, we’re all hungry masochists looking for a God in front of whom to prostrate ourselves.

Is this my God?

I realize I’m looking into His eyes. The Stranger takes my braid in a single motion and pulls hard so my head is thrown back.

“Have you not been taught you are not to look a Man in the face unless so ordered?” He asks, with a sneer.

“Forgive me, Sir,” I reply.

He moves closer so He’s looking down at my face.

“Do you really think a weak little cunt like you could become everything I need in a slave?”

I say nothing.

Suddenly, I hear a lash. It takes a moment for my tits to register the pain. I’ve been too engrossed in the suit to notice He’s holding a dog quirt in one of His hands.

“Do you really think you could be my slave?” He asked again.

“It would depend entirely on Your Constitution, Sir,” I respond insolently.

And as He lashes me, I have hope that He’s finally found me.

It excited and unnerved me to watch him read the notebook. That’s how we were doing it now: I would meet with him and he would look over the notebook and then we would discuss whatever he felt was pertinent.

This time, after he finished reading, he rose from his seat and came over to where I was sitting on the daybed in his consulting room.

He untied the scarf from my neck.

“Did you bring me this, Zita?”

I nodded.

“Do you like to be strangled?” he asked, putting it back around my neck so it worked as a noose and pulling it until it was tight.

I felt the oxygen intake decrease.

“Spread your legs, Zita.”

My heart jumped in my chest. I spread my legs, the scarf growing tighter.

“Tap me if it’s too much,” he said.

I felt his fingers inside me. I put my feet up; one on his desk and another on a shelf and angled my hips forward.

“Very intuitive, obedient Zita,” F______ said, fingering me.

I was so wet, it was ridiculous. I hadn’t realized I was so turned on. When did it happen?

He fingered and fingered me, harder and faster, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck. I don’t know how long I was without air before I tapped him.

“Get up,” he whispered.

I stood, the blood rushing to my head and making me feel dizzy.

“Now bend over with your legs straight and your elbows on the chaise.”

I bent down, three and a half feet of leg into two and a quarter of body at a breakneck angle.

He ran a finger up my leg. “Such a perfect frame, my little thoroughbred.”

I felt like we’d stepped into a story. I moaned.

He spanked me. He hit me so hard I almost fell. It felt amazing.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again, harder.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again, other side.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again on that side, harder.

“Thank you.”

He knelt and observed my cunt. He put a finger in and moved it about, as doctors do when they’re feeling for your ovaries.

“You have an incredibly tight pussy.”

“Does Master like it?” I ventured. I couldn’t believe I had called him that.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He finger fucked me in both holes until I was raw.

“Do you want a break, Zita? I think you need a break.”

“Thank you, Master.”

I stayed in place though my calves stung from the strain of being up like this.

“Now, Zita, before we finish, I want you prostrate yourself before me. Sit with your legs folded under you, Zita. Sit on your feet, your shins parallel to the floor, and ass resting on feet pointing backwards.”

I did as he told me, making sure my ass was exposed for him to see.

“Now bow down, make sure your ass is still touching your feet,” he continued. “Yes, very good. Bow further, until your forearms are resting on the ground before you. Put your head down and close your eyes.”

As I went down, I saw his cock, hard, pressed against his pants. I couldn’t believe it. I’d turned him on.

“Very nice,” he said.

“Does Master want to cum on my face?” I asked him without looking up.

There was a short pause and then F______ asked: “Don’t concern yourself with it. That aspect of it isn’t as important as this.”

With that, he picked me up by the hair, reached into my slip and pulled out my tits. He took a nipple between his fingers and pinched me so hard, I came.

“You little pain slut,” he said with a smile. “I think we’re done for today. I like using alternative tools to hurt and subdue you. I think you ought to include ideas in the notebook along with descriptions, images and places where these can be obtained. Start with the quirt, since it had such a charming debut.”